


Snapshots 2

by staringatstars



Series: Captain Leo and those other guys [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2012), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: TMNT, TMNT/Captain America fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 05:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11052540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatstars/pseuds/staringatstars
Summary: It's about a month after they found Mikey, and he's just starting to know them all again, but when an alleged FBI agent claims to have knowledge of a cure for Donnie's rage-triggered transformations, Michelangelo decides to take matters into his own hands.





	1. Want To Make A Deal?

A part of Michelangelo was missing. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s still there but it’s broken, somehow. 

Wrong. 

Though history knew little of their exploits, those affiliated with the recently disbanded SHIELD organization still had access to records, albums filled with lab notes detailing the progress of the four turtles from the moment they were hatched to their adoption by the armed forces, and in every picture, dating as far back as their hatchling days, Michelangelo was never still. Whether he was standing in a group photo, beaming bright and innocent for the camera as Raph grumpily swatted away some wayward bunny ears, there was always some part of him moving, green hands tapping out a rhythm against a thigh or toes wiggling or a restless flick of blue eyes. He was always too energized, too jazzed to see what new, fascinating thing the world had to offer around the very next corner to be still.

The Soldier was nothing if not still. He could sit on the couch or at the counter for hours if not otherwise prompted, his gaze unfocused, or perhaps too focused on a time that had already passed. Without orders to complete or a mission to fulfill, there was nothing for him to do but become lost in his own head, buried under waves of memories that dogged his every waking hour like the vengeful wraiths of the bodies piled up in his wake.

His brothers insisted that it wasn’t his fault, that it was Hydra and he could’t blame himself for what they forced him to do, but it was his finger on the trigger, his hands around the throat of the man, wife, and – _Not the kid. Please. Never a kid. I won’t do it. You_ can’t _make me_ – and their words rang hollow.

Sometimes, Leo slipped.

It’d be when they were all together flipping mindlessly through the flat screen TV Stark had donated to their living quarters in his personal vanity fest - which had a thousand channels instead of five or ten, but was simple enough to use, and the mechanics of changing the station and the volume was the same, except now they didn’t have an antenna to worry about – and Mikey was doing his best to force his muscles to untense, to smooth the deep lines from his features because he was home and he was safe and he couldn’t keep making his brothers worry about him, couldn't act like their patience and efforts weren’t working, couldn’t keep being a burden-

And because it all seemed, for that moment, okay, like maybe things had changed, but now they were changing _back_ , Leo would unconsciously fall back into the role he was comfortable with, the role of older brother, of leader. 

“Hey, Mike,” he’d call easily with his feet propped up on the table, an arm thrown lazily over a pillow, “grab me a soda from the fridge.”

And Mikey would wordlessly leap to his feet, without any real volition or thought, to carry out the order, but not before seeing dismay smother the light in his brother’s eyes. 

If he could take that pain, keep it all to himself, he would. He’s used to pain, but he can’t, and the old him, the one he remembers sometimes in snippets and flashes, the one smiling out at him from the photographs and the comics, he would have known how to cheer them up, how to make them laugh, how to turn a day where the sun sank behind the clouds and the rain never stopped into a day to sing and splash through puddles. 

Instead, the pizza that used to be his favorite causes him stomach pain, something Donatello explained, once he’d realized on his own why his little brother seemed to carefully clutch his stomach for a time after every meal, as his body needing time to readjust to carbs and sugars. “You’ve been on a strict regiment that’s meant to keep you in peak physical condition. It seems we’ll have to gradually reintroduce carbohydrates into your diet.”

His mouth curved into a rueful smirk, Leo had shaken his head. “I can’t believe we’ll be putting you on a special food regimen to get you eating junk food again. 

“Well, joke’s on them.” Raph snorted. “I eat pizza every day and I’m healthy as a horse.”

“That’s because you’re still young, Raph,” technically he was almost a century, but Donnie wasn’t counting the time they’d spent frozen. “Keep up that diet when you’re older and your health isn’t the only thing you’ll have in common with a horse.”

“What exactly is it that you’re trying to imply there, Don?” 

It’s while Raphael was sweeping his brother’s head under his muscled arm and vigorously rubbing his knuckles against his scalp, that Michelangelo uttered a quick, light sound, a fast exhale of air that made every turtle at the counter turn their heads to look at him, and he froze, anticipating a scolding for what could only have been a blatant show of emotion, but then three pairs of arms were around him, three separate voices all repeating the same sound, and deep inside, the Soldier begins to fade, its cold reason and logic and restraint replaced by the warmth of a boundless, uncontainable love bursting forth from the walls of ice his captors had placed inside him.

 _This_ , he thought, _was what it meant to be home._

 

Weeks had passed, and he was still not a fan of sleeping. Not in the bed, not on the floor, not on couch. To be inactive for such long periods of time reminded him of cryo, so he got up and paced. 

When Donatello noticed, he’d come to stand in the doorway of his room, exhaustion and raw concern shaping the downward curve of his brow, and pursed his lips at the guilt flashing across his little brother’s face. He’d turned around and left, only to come back with blankets a moment later, dropping them in neat, folded piles at the foot of Mikey’s bed. 

And Michelangelo had stared at them without moving, hesitant, stalling to the point where Donatello had wondered whether he was actually going to use them, but when he’d come back later in the night to check on his little brother, it was to see him all bundled up, his tired eyes closed and relaxed.

In an effort to ease the adjustment, they took to raising the temperature at night, making it extra warm so that Michelangelo never woke in a panic, never thrashed as though trying to run, and debated, out of sight but not out of earshot, whether moving to a warmer climate for the winter would outweigh the risks of moving away from their allies.

Yoshi Hamato, the former director of SHIELD, had assured them over the phone that no matter where they went, there would always be someone looking out for them. 

And though he was technically unemployed, he’d made sure to not-so-subtlety mention that he was long past due for a warm weathered vacation.

 

Even after co-inhabiting with his brothers for a little over a month - Or two. It’d been ages since he’d last been awake this long and his internal calendar was becoming confused - it was hard to shake the mindset that pleasure was an emotion best hidden, suppressed, locked away in an iron box until the machine tore it and everything he’d ever been away from him.

Emotions were a weakness, shackles with razor edges – clinging, cloying things that gradually began to fill all the empty spaces Hydra had burned into his brain.

His conditioning demanded he reject them, his brothers asked that he accept them, and so Michelangelo often found himself taking a middle ground.

He’d plop down in front of the television, and not think about anything. Since he never bothered to change the channel, his brothers would often stumble into the kitchen, still groggy, to find him watching a documentary on the life cycle of bees or staring dully at the screen while a historian provided details on the ancient samurai’s way of life.

Raph had shot Leo a _look_ for that one. 

But when Leo suggested that Michelangelo could change the channel, he’d begun mechanically flipping through the stations just to satisfy him, absorbing nothing. 

While Leo and Donatello tried to address the problem by turning on cartoons they thought Mikey might appreciate before leaving the television unattended, Raph took a far more direct approach. “Move over, Frosty,” Raph called out, half a second before vaulting over the top of the couch and jostling his little brother. Before Leo had the chance to admonish him for his reckless behavior, he noticed that Mikey didn’t move immediately, the slightest hint of a scowl on his face as he grudgingly shifted to make room for the hothead, who then gleefully snatched up the remote.

Ignoring the sharp stab of envy in his chest, Leo settled against the counter, watching as Raph began to rapidly click through the channels, seemingly without any destination in mind at all. 

In fact, he wasn’t even looking at the screen. Instead, he was paying close attention to his little brother’s expression, waiting for a twitch, a frown, anything he could use to discover what he liked. 

It wasn’t until they hit the early news channels that a curiousity entered Mikey’s light blue eyes, and Raph glanced at the screen, mouth dropping a little in disbelief. It was an expose’ on him, Leo, and Donnie – talking about their time in the war, how they were MIA for decades, only to resurface once more as heroes. 

A video played of two bodies falling from a crashing helicarrier, and though Raph knew both of them would be okay, that one body was brooding silently behind him, safe and whole, and the other was sitting at his side, his breath caught, muscles tensing at how close he’d come to losing two of the most important people in his life.

Michelangelo placed a palm on his wrist, then looked up, blinking owlishly, as though surprised at the gesture.

Though touched, Raph did his best to hide the roughness in his voice behind a hearty cough. “Why ya wanna watch this, Mikey? You’re living with the genuine articles.”

“…I want to learn more about you.” Rubbing his nose, Raph looked over at Leo for help, but Leo merely shrugged, figuring that Raph had accomplished more in the thirty seconds he’d spoken to Mikey than he had in the last thirty days. If anything, Leo was going to be going to him for advice after this.

Still, Raph attempted explain to Mikey that he didn’t need to watch the news to learn about his brothers. “If you’ve ever got a question, you can always ask us.”

And at that, Mikey actually smiled. “Why not both?”

 

A few days later, when Don was in the kitchen, working on installing the new voice-activated toaster that Tony Stark had sent them through the mail, there came several hard knocks on their door. 

From his place at the counter, Mikey swiveled in his seat, poised to stand. “Want me to get that, Don?”

Already heading towards the door, Donnie waved him off. “I got it.”

Standing at the threshold was a man dressed in a dull gray suit with a white tie, the ensemble matched by a sharp-toothed grin – thin, pale lips pulled back to reveal every one of his blindingly white teeth. It distracted Donatello, making him momentarily think of the man as the shark standing outside his door.

Someone, it seemed, had an unhealthy obsession with aquatic predators. 

Though being visited by an agent wasn’t an unusual occurrence, considering where they lived, Hamato had made no mention of such a visit, over the phone or otherwise, and so Donatello opened the door slowly, wary. “To what do we owe the pleasure…. Agent?”

“Armaggon.” The man supplied cooly. He rustled through his suit pocket, retrieving a badge. “And to correct any possible misunderstandings, I’m actually from the FBI.” Donatello stiffened, moving instinctively to fill the entire doorway with his body, though his svelte limbs did little to enhance the intimidation factor. The agent continued as though oblivious to the change. “My department received an anonymous tip claiming that the Winter Soldier, an international assassin, has taken up residence in your home.”

 _Don’t you dare call him by that like that's all he is_ , Donnie thought furiously, it taking all of his focus and self-discipline not to spit the words in the man’s face. _His name is Michelangelo. More than a solider, he's my little brother. And he’s not going anywhere with you_.

It was true that his body was largely unimpressive, but that wouldn’t last long if this agent tried to take Mikey away.

“If you know what I am,” Donnie growled, “what I can do, then I suggest you stay right there.” 

Then he tried to shut the door in the agent’s face, only for the man to shove his polished shoe in the crack, prying open the door so Donnie could smell the saltiness of his breath when he said smoothly, with a voice greasy as an oil spill, “What if I told you that in exchange for allowing me to take the Soldier into custody, I could get you the cure for your little… affliction?”

Turning his head inside, Donnie saw that though the couch where Mikey had been sitting was empty, one of the ceiling panels had recently shed a thin layer of dust over the tile floor. When next he faced the man at the door, there was a hint of red glowing deep within his brown eyes. “Leave,” he bit out as the man’s final warning. “You’re making me angry.”

And in what could have been the first evidence of intelligent life, Agent Armaggon retracted his foot, nodded, and walked away.

Donnie frowned. He hadn’t pinned the man as the type to give up without a fight.

 

It was time for an emergency family gathering.

Once Raph had retrieved a broomstick to poke and prod Mikey out of the ceiling with, they all gathered in the kitchen, listening as Donatello repeated everything the man had said, starting from when he’d claimed to work for the FBI to when he’d offered to provide the cure for the secondary mutation. 

Steepling his fingers, Leo said, “What’re the chances that he’s telling the truth?”

Donatello scoffed. “The chances that this stranger who, I might add, is screaming shady so loudly he should be perpetually hoarse, somehow found a source for a reliable cure, when SHIELD, with all of its vast funding and state-of-the-art technology, has barely even cracked the surface of the secondary mutation? They’re beyond slim, Leo. Practically nonexistent.” He paused, clenching and unclenching his fists as he breathed, forcing his heart rate to slow until it was miles clear of the danger zone. “And, also,” he added in a softer tone, “Mike’s still in danger. I don’t think I even want the cure right now.”

Unbeknownst to the others, Mikey tensed, confusion and anger beneath his skin. Whether Donatello wanted to receive the cure or not shouldn’t have had anything to do with him, and yet he was making it seem as though the decision revolved around his wellbeing.

He hadn’t rejoined his brothers to become yet another burden for them to shoulder.

“Look, if you’re worried about not being able to defend yourself-” 

Donnie shook his head. “I know you guys have my back. Worst comes to worst, it’s not me getting hurt that I’m worried about.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, either.” Reaching for his hand and giving it a tight squeeze, Leo said, “We won’t let you hurt anyone.”

“Except for the bad guys,” Raph interjected, leaning back in his seat with a sly grin, “we’ll let you hurt them plenty.”

 

It was during one of those rare times when Michelangelo was left to his own devices – not completely alone, as he was still a wanted international criminal, but his brothers were all resting in their respective rooms, leaving him free to channel surf to his heart’s content – when a letter was pushed under the door. 

Drawing a blade from out of a sheath strapped to his ankle, he stalked towards the letter, bending to retrieve it only after he’d counted to sixty, and sensed no presence on the other side of the door, heard no shuffling or quiet intake of breath, no metallic click as the bullet moved into the chamber.

To be safe, he yanked his bandanna off his head, wrapping it around his mouth and nostrils before opening the letter to read several, neat handwritten words:

_Will you stand back and watch as they sacrifice all for you?_

He crumpled the letter in his hand, wishing ardently for a furnace he could throw it into. It would have been satisfying to watch it burn. 

Something new caught his eye, and he smoothed it out on his knee, reading the back.

_Are you worth it?_


	2. A Soldier's Worth

Although Michelangelo wasn’t technically a prisoner, Stark definitely hadn’t made it explicitly clear to his colleagues or anyone, really, that he was harboring an assassin under his roof. It wasn’t something he liked to advertise. Rhodey knew but pretended not to, and Casey and April came over to visit a few times a week, often bringing snacks and video games, but for all intents and purposes, Stark was aiding a fugitive. If the public discovered that its heroes were accomplices in such a severe obstruction of justice, there would consequences. Everything they’d gained would stripped away, both from Mikey’s brothers and his friends. 

Since he was painfully aware of this, Mikey did his best to hide from the cameras, avoiding them entirely when he could help it. 

It wasn’t long before he’d spotted what must’ve been the agent standing by the front entrance, staring a hole into his watch. “Waiting for me?”

After leaping from the ceiling to land dramatically, with only a few feet between him and the agent, who gave a wide and predatory grin at the sight of him, Mikey placed his hands on his hips, canting his head to the side as his mind automatically began to catalogue information. 

_**Height: Disadvantage.** _

_**Weight: Disadvantage.**_

_**Suggested course of action: Strike low. Cripple. Clothing can be utilized in the asphyxiation of the target.**_

Enough.

He wasn't here to fight. “Well, you’ve got me. Where’s the cure?”

In answer to his question, Armaggon indicated a white corvette waiting outside the glass doors, then moved towards it, as though expecting Michelangelo to follow. 

He didn’t. “Unless you’re heading to that car to get the cure, this concludes our negotiations.” Narrowing his eyes to white slits, Mikey snarled, “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Despite his words, Agent Armaggon never lost his smile. “If you don’t come with me right now, then I’m afraid I will be forced to inform the FBI that one of the richest men in the nation has been harboring a wanted fugitive for weeks. What do you think will happen to your brothers, then?” 

“Unless,” the agent said with a drawl, “you decide to kill me.” He waited, his coal black eyes lighting up with glee when the mutant refused to draw a weapon. “We wouldn’t want to betray the trust of those who believe in you, now would we?” There was a sudden sting in Mikey’s left bicep. He looked down, mouth gaping slightly at the sight of a dart poking from his skin. With no holes in the glass, and the trajectory of the shot, it could only have come from the agent’s sleeve. 

Since when did the FBI strap darts to their wrists? 

“That’s right. You’re not a killer anymore, are you? You’re reformed. You’re nice and tame.” His arms were going numb. What was it? Poison? Paralysis? What did he want?!

… What else? He wanted what they always wanted.

A weapon.

 _ **A match does not choose when it is lit, Soldier. A pistol has no say in when or where it is fired. Tools are what they are because they are used.**_

Feeling his knees begin to buckle, Mikey charged, fully intending to break the man’s legs, but the paralytic forced his muscles to seize, to tense and twitch as though they had a life of their own, and the man sidestepped him easily, roaring with mocking laughter.

He bit down on his tongue, ignoring the salty tang that flooded his mouth, focusing only on the pain, and tried again, this time swinging his legs around the fraud’s thick neck. That life was done. It didn’t matter what happened to his body, he wasn’t going back. 

“Zhelaniya.” _Longing._

Momentarily disoriented, thoughts thrown awry by a word he’d heard many times since he’d defected from Hydra, but always in his mind, always in the dark, when his eyes closed and there was no comforting voice, no gentle touch to let him know what was real and what wasn’t, Mikey froze. 

“Rzhavyy.” _Rusted._

Screaming at the giant to stop, he struck out with his legs, slamming into Armaggon’s ankles with a force that would have cracked the bones of a normal man. It hardly fazed him.

“Semnadtsat.” _Seventeen._

It wouldn’t happen gradually, but all at once, like a switch being flipped, and once it did, Michelangelo would no longer be in control. Everyone he’d grown to care about, everyone his brothers cared for, would be in danger.

Armaggon sneered at what he perceived to be submission, though no sound left his curled lips. The trigger words had to be spoken consecutively. 

“Rassvet.” _Daybreak._

He could have run, Mikey thought as he unsheathed a concealed blade from inside his belt. That day when he’d pulled Leo from water, he could have run and run and kept running until the world forgot his name. It would have been better. Their lives would have been long. Happy. 

Whereas the lives he touched would forever be cut short, tragedies crafted by his own hands.

“Pech.” _Furnace._

The serum in his veins was already burning through the paralytic, and whoever this thug was, he was only halfway through the words. Whoever hired him, they’d failed to provide the proper information. This guy was well aware that he was dealing with a weapon, something dangerous, but the Soldier was not something as simple as a tool, something to be lost, misplaced, and then picked up by just anyone. Mikey feigned a moment of weakness, swaying heavily to his left, waiting for the light of triumph to shine in his adversaries’ eyes.

“Devyat.” _Nine._

It didn’t take long. 

He sprinted forward, plunging the blade into Armaggon’s right thigh. There was a scream.

It was satisfying, but it wouldn’t be enough.

The chain needed to be broken.

Ruthlessly, Mikey yanked out the blade, dodging deftly the huge hands that tried to grab him, feeling nothing as blood spread from the wound, darkening the man’s gray suit in a growing circle. With a low, agonized groan, Armaggon opened his mouth, hate in his soulless black eyes. “Dobroserdechnyy.” _Benign._ “Vozvrashcheniye.” _Homecoming._ “Odin.” _One._

_**Stop him. Silence him. He can’t speak if he can’t breathe.** _

Moving quickly, Mikey stunned him with a few brutal blows to the jaw, then gripped his throat, squeezing until his movements lost direction, until he was less than human, just another frightened, panicking animal at the end of its life.

 _No!_ All at once, Mikey loosened his hold, allowing Armaggon enough air to draw in a pathetic, ragged wheeze. 

This wasn’t who he was. And most importantly, this wasn’t who his brothers needed him to be.

Stark had surveillance cameras all over the tower, and though the man’s presence suggested that something must have been done to interfere with Jarvis’ defense protocols, it was only a matter of time before Stark or his brothers came running down to check on the cause of all the noise, and he couldn’t let the sight that greeted them when they did be him standing in the lobby with a body at his feet. That, too, would be a betrayal, throwing everything they’d ever done for him in their faces.

Revealing every point of his bloodstained teeth, Armaggon curled his lips into a sneer, and triggered a sonic blast that drilled into Michelangelo’s eardrums, forcing him to reflexively pull away from the sound. Rubbing his throat, Armaggon gleefully spat, “Gruzovoy vagon.” _Freight Car._

And then the struggle was over. 

The change was painless. 

There was nothing left to feel pain.

In one, quick movement, the Soldier released Armaggon, allowing him to gasp down air with greedy gulps. When prompted, he replied without feeling, all former rage extinguished, “Gotovoy soblyudat.” 

_Ready to comply._

 

A rustle of clothing and shuffling feet yanked their attention to the man standing on the stairs in his hot rod red boxers. Narrowing his eyes at the thug in the suit as Armaggon rose to his full height of seven feet and too many inches, Stark raked a hand through his mussed brown hair, before loudly clearing his throat. “Hey, Jarvis? What day of the week is it?”

Naturally, the butler AI’s response was swift. “It’s Wednesday, Sir.”

“Ah. Trash day.” Humming thoughtfully, without ever shifting his gaze from the strange pair below, Tony replied casually, “Think you can take Shark Week to the curb?” 

Hearing that, an ugly grin spread over the fake FBI agent’s face, revealing too many pearly white teeth, so bright they only served to highlight how empty, black, and cold his eyes were. 

“I’ve been trying, sir.” And if Tony hadn’t known better, he’d have said the AI sounded frustrated. Desperate, even. “Something has been blocking my protocols.”

He and the youngest mutant turtle hadn’t interacted much beyond the rote, ‘Would you like something to drink?’ but through the ceaseless repetition, Michelangelo’s answer had gradually changed, from stony silence to polite refusals to a tentative request for chocolate milk. On that momentous day, Stark could have sworn that Jarvis had sounded just a little more chipper than usual.

But when Stark stared down at the triumphant, smug expression the fake agent turned on him and his little mutant buddy’s frostbitten blue eyes, he didn’t see a trace of that good kid left in the calculating creature shifting effortlessly into a fighting stance. Stark had seen him on bad days, after nightmares and sometimes when downcast weather made his prosthetic ache, robbing him of what little vitality he had, but he’d never seen him look so lethal, so mechanical. 

Tony hissed out a sigh through his teeth. “That’s so not good.”

How loud did he reckon he’d have to scream to wake the others? He’s been told he’s got a good pair of lungs on him, especially when it comes to manly, high-pitched shrieking. 

But that would send them bolting, wouldn’t it? No matter what, he couldn’t let this shady guy leave with the kid. 

The man rolled his shoulders with an audible crack, then brushed the dust and dirt off his suit, all while Michelangelo remained still and stubbornly silent. “Why don’t you turn around and head back upstairs, comrade?” Oh, what Tony wouldn’t give to give this guy a solid crack on the nose. “We were just leaving.” 

“Well, I would…” Stark said, faking a sincerity he then promptly decided to ruin by interrupting himself with a shrug, “Just kidding. See, that’s a friend of mine you just rewired and if you don’t mind, or if you do – I don’t really care – I’d really like him back.”

“Big words from a man standing around in his pajamas.”

Chuckling under breath, Tony began to climb down towards the ground level of his tower, one hand trailing the railing. “You know, you’re right. How terribly rude of me.” He snapped his fingers with a cocky smirk. “This isn’t exactly appropriate attire for an ass-kicking, is it?”

Right on cue, crimson and gold armor crashed through the windows and sailed down the stairs, slamming into his back and limbs with a force that was sure to leave bruises later. He caught the helmet before it could shove its way onto his head, then plopped it on himself, feeling an old, familiar thrill when the eye pieces glowed and the hydraulics punched into overdrive. 

Now that the easy part was over, he just needed to figure out how to keep Jaws from running off with the little guy. “Jarvis, I need you to wake up the others. I’m not sure how long I can hold them when I’m pulling my punches.”

With that settled, he launched himself forward, repulsors charged and ready to teach the smug intruder messing with his guests some manners, but Michelangelo got in the way. He blocked the blast with his prosthetic arm, allowing it to sear and char its surface without flinching. The smell of burning metal saturated the air, sharp and acrid. 

He tried again, this time aiming over Mikey’s shoulder, except the kid got in close enough to shunt his arm away at the last second, making the shot go wide. 

Throughout it all, Armaggon never moved, acting like a spectator with front row tickets to a wrestling match.

Startled by single-minded focus with which the ninja stared him down – the term ‘ninja’ just didn’t seem to apply until the turtles were in combat, pulling vanishing acts and tossing around kunai like they were playing a game of darts – he hesitated an instant too long, allowing Michelangelo to catch him off-guard and sweep the legs out form under him. 

Tony hit the floor hard, his own momentum causing the tile to crack and splinter. Internally, he was keeping up a tab of property damages that he would have to pay for when this was over. It wasn’t exactly a priority, but he liked to multitask, which was fortunate because if this kept up, he’d also be keeping up a tab of his future medical bills. 

“Kid,” he muttered, groaning as he climbed laboriously to his feet, “right now, you’re about as warm and cuddly at the iceberg that sunk the Titanic.”

That, at least, earned him a scowl. Since Michelangelo wasn’t having it any other way, he geared up to fight him, and by fight him, he meant knock the kid out as quickly and as painlessly as possible. For now, a solid right hook to the jaw ought to handle that nicely, and then he could focus on frying bigger fish. 

He pivoted his foot, throwing his entire weight behind the punch, then activated the rocket boosters concealed in the soles of his feet to give him the advantage. The blow connected half-a-second before the Soldier anticipated it, and Tony cringed at the sudden lack of resistance beneath his fist. Though he struggled to maintain his balance, Mikey staggered to the side, swaying. Lifting his head, he blinked heavy-lidded eyes at Tony, who reached out to catch him before he could fall. Then, in an act of defiance, the ninja spun to land a kick against the armored suit’s torso. 

Had it not been for the gear, Tony knew that a kick like that would have done some serious damage, maybe even broken a few ribs, but as it was, it was the brainwashed teen’s foot that bore the brunt of the attack. From the way he shifted his weight, Tony had to assume that appendage was either bruised or fractured. 

Alright, so Plan A was a bust and Plan B was shaping up to be much of the same. He should have anticipated that Hammerhead would use the boy as a shield. 

He activated the boosters again, but this time the focused heat and energy poured out of his palms, granting him height instead of speed. He couldn’t go as high as he’d have liked, because _someone_ (namely him) had decided to put a gauche chandelier in the lobby. Still, it was high enough. Grinning, he lined up Armaggon in his visor’s sights, a repulsor blast with his name on it charging in his palm. “Let’s try this again.”

The beam crossed the distance at a speed rivaling a single flap of a hummingbird’s wing, but the kid still managed to get in the way. He shoved at Sharkbait’s burly chest, making him stumble backwards, and the ninja took his place. The heat slammed into his shell, pushing him to his knees, and Michelangelo threw back his head and _screamed._

When it was over, the ninja collapsed into a smoking heap on the ground. The fake agent gathered him into his arms, tossed down a flash bang, and in the split second that Tony felt his retinas cooking like omelets, he escaped, rushing out the exit with his precious cargo in tow. 

Muttering a stream of curses under his breath, Stark checked to see if Jarvis couldn’t track them, or if not that, then scan every traffic and security camera in New York for facial recognition patterns. It was illegal, but desperate times called for desperate measures and this was saving a life they were talking about here. 

Those boys had finally started to make real, tangible progress with him. Finding out that they’d lost him again, and that he’d had a chance to stop it, it was going to break their hearts. 

Losing his parents had messed him up for years. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what losing family twice could do. 

By the time Jarvis reported that whatever device had been blocking his signal was gone and all his systems were reinstated, the formerly sleeping ninja turtles had come barreling downstairs with their weapons drawn. 

Upon seeing them, Tony flipped up his visor, allowing the sorrow and remorse etched into his features to do the majority of the explaining for him. “I’m sorry.”

And they weren’t dumb. They knew what the scorch marks on the wall and the broken windows meant, the discarded flash bang on the ground. 

They were too late. 

Always, always too late.

Dropping his bow, Donnie stepped forward, then with a twisted expression of anguish and rage, slammed his fist into the wall with a force that pulverized the cement and plaster beneath it.

 

It was two weeks before they saw Mikey again. 

It was on the remnants of what had been a grassy field on the outskirts of the city, before flamethrowers and tanks had scorched the earth. The sun was sinking beneath the horizon, throwing red hues over the world, and amidst it all, the brother’s stood in defiance against the Hydra forces attempting to invade. 

The fact that they were out in the open alone had them at a disadvantage. Ninjas weren’t meant to man the frontlines, but none of them had any desire to stay hidden on the rooftops when innocent civilians were in danger, and that was how they found themselves clashing with Michelangelo once more. 

“Mikey!” Donnie threw up his bo to block the blade aimed at his plastron, and the shouted at him, “It’s us!” Not even a flicker of recognition. “You don’t have to fight anymore!”

In the short time since they’d seen him, Hydra had taken his recently regained humanity and set it alight, making it burn through his veins until he choked on the ash left behind.

His enemy seemed to know him, but what did it matter? He had a mission to complete.

He redoubled his efforts, attacking with a ferocity that went against his programming, because these strange ninjas were causing something to stir inside him, emotions that were at once unfamiliar and frightening. The ninja seemed to spasm, his muscles twisting beneath his skin as he begged,“No, not now…” A subtle crimson glow circled his iris. “I won’t… hurt him…” And then it was gone. Whatever had happened, the ninja was distracted. It was the perfect opportunity to put an end to their battle. 

But for a reason he couldn’t understand, the Solider hesitated. Red-tinted brown eyes stared back him as his enemy struggled to catch his breath, filled with desperation and a blooming hope. No one had ever looked at the soldier so warmly before. 

He didn’t want to see those eyes empty, glazed over in death. He didn’t want to see hope turn to disappointment and betrayal when he killed him.

Instead of lunging, the soldier let his arm drop. With the knife in his grasp resting uselessly at his side, he asked softly, “Who am I?”

Even if they were in the middle of a battle, even if the city was at stake and there was no time, Donatello would make time, would brute force it into existence because his little brother needed him to make the world stop spinning just long enough for him to say, “Your name is Michelangelo.” And maybe it was just wishful thinking, but his blue eyes seemed to grow a little brighter after hearing his name. “You’re our little brother. And Leo, Raph, and I - we’ve come to take you home.”

It might have worked, might have even gotten through to him, but then -“Hydra has no use for a disobedient Soldier.” - a single shot made itself known above all the others. Something warm splashed against Don’s plastron, and he looked down to see Mikey had slumped against him. 

“It’s okay, Mikey.” His little brother’s breathing sounded strained and wet. Hearing it felt like having stitches pulled out, like having scar tissue gouged out down to the bone. Out of options, Donnie pressed slick hands against the oozing hole in his chest in an attempt to stem the flow. “I’ve got you,” he cradled him, his heart breaking when Mikey’s eyes began to flutter, when his mouth soundlessly and uncertainly shaped his name. “I’m here.”

He swiveled his head wildly, shifting his gaze from where Raph and Leo fought off the remaining Hydra agents, until finally he spotted Bishop standing further down the field, behind the enemy forces. There was a recently discharged rifle in his hands. He lowered the scope, as unsmiling and supernaturally stoic as ever, before turning to leave. 

_No_ , Donnie’s inner monster snarled, _he’s not getting away again._ For once, they were in total agreement.

His pupils dilated, his muscles bulged painfully, and everyone around seemed to shrink, but none of that mattered because Bishop was strolling towards a parked vehicle and nothing was going to keep Don from making him pay. 

Later, his brothers would tell him he demolished the entire force with one arm wrapped protectively around Mikey, while the other batted soldiers away like they were little better than irritating gnats. He barreled through the lines, ignoring bullets and shrapnel, tipped over a tank and tossed three screaming Hydra agents over his shoulder.

Nothing they did seemed to faze him. No blades pierced his hide, projectiles did little more than scuff his shell. He was rage given form, and though dozens of men fell at his hand, all of it was directed with a laser-like focus to the tall, slender man slipping into the driver’s seat of his car. 

When the monster reached Bishop, who had managed to jam the key into the ignition and slam down on the gas, its claws dove under its body and lifted its wheels off the ground, leaving them to spin uselessly while Bishop made one last attempt to run. 

He kicked open the door, clearly intending to jump, but then the crocodilian abomination curled its lips in a mockery of a smile, revealing every single one of its fangs, and the car was lifted over the creature’s head and then tossed into the distance, as far as it could manage. Far enough to guarantee that he wouldn’t be coming back to torture their little brother ever again.

 

It took some time for Mikey to trust that he wouldn’t hurt them, for him to forgive himself for forgetting his brothers once again. Leo, Raph, and Don pooled all the money in their possession to buy him a pair of sound-canceling orange headphones, so that if he ever felt threatened or afraid, he could plop them on. It was a feeble attempt to combat the trigger words programmed into his brain, but it was the best they could come up with on short notice, and it didn’t keep Michelangelo from lighting up like a firework when he unwrapped the impromptu gift. 

“Technically,” Raph had said upon noticing the inquiring ridge with which Mikey regarded the ice cream cake Leo pulled out of the refrigerator, “we missed seventy or so birthdays so,” and he yanked from Leo’s arms, ignoring his indignant sputtering, to plop it down in front of Mikey, “consider this our way of catching up.”

And Mikey’s answering smile was shaky, weaker than a candle flame and a breath away from going out, but if they could shield it, protect it, then surely it would one day strengthen into a blaze.

Afterwards, Mikey blew the candles out as much guster as he could muster, but he didn’t wish for anything. Why would he? He already had a family that would turn the world upside-down to save him, and even though they’d done so much already, they continued to fight for him, and despite his promise to Donnie to never do anything as dumb and reckless as sneaking off to make a deal on his behalf again, he'd still do everything he could to keep them safe and happy. Because whether they knew or not, just by standing at his side, they kept saving him, more and more each passing day.

And if keeping them that way meant that he had to be safe and happy, too...

Then he supposed he could give it a try.


End file.
